


Fresh Air

by Morgondagar



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgondagar/pseuds/Morgondagar
Summary: After finally reuniting many years later, Jaskier can’t shake the feeling that Geralt is acting stange, even for being a Witcher.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 83





	Fresh Air

With a strung to his lute, Jaskier couldn’t help but smile as he trotted down the gravelled path, the sound of his new, thicker boots giving of a sound resonating with Roach’s hooves beside him. The air was fresh, his lungs filling up with the summer’s sweet scents as he looked around himself; eyes darting between the clear sky above, the wheat swaying in the light breeze, small flowers of all colours breaking the path from the fields, and lastly Geralt. 

His friend had been awfully quiet the past few days, more so than the bard had grown accustomed to. First, he had blamed their long time apart, a rift cracking up between the two that Jaskier would have to fill, but worry crept it’s way into the man when his delightful tunes and humouring smalltalk hadn’t as much as cracked a slight snort from the other. What truly sent him into confusion was the moment Gerlat had offered to pay for his new gear, hoisting up the few coins he had to pay for Jaskier’s new boots fit for a man travelling the lands and surprised him with a small dagger of his own (“Just in case.”)

Jaskier faked a short cough, his eyes set on the man as he did. The moment the sound left him, canary eyes left the road to watch the bard, studied him from head to toe as he seemed to hold his breath. Jaskier had found that to be the most effective way to gain his attention lately, his far more sensitive ears listening to any change in pitch from the other man and immediately focusing on him. After a few steps in silence, he let out an almost inaudible huff as he returned his gaze to the gravel before them.

The sun had set before the two found their way into a small village, Roach resting in a stable for hire as the two men made their way into a warm and welcoming inn. Another bard was already playing, his voice catching Jaskier’s ears before they even entered. Cringing at the slightly out-of-tune vocals, Jaskier bumped his side into Geralt’s, making a face. The Witcher simply shook his head before looking around, seeking somewhere to hide from the crowd noticing their arrival. 

They settled down by a table in the corner, the bard making the decision for the two on a modest meal and a pitcher of ale to share. Per usual, Jaskier dove into a long rant about anything his mind could think of as Geralt ate in silence, occasionally nodding in agreement or sending the other a dirty look. Not until they both had cleared their plate and night had truly fallen, did the silence rise between them. Pouring his friend another glass, Jaskier sighed. 

“I don’t know if I’m misremembering, but were you always this quiet?” He sat back and studied the other, noticing how quickly the ale went down his throat. The glass left a horrid clang as he sat it down on the table, resting his elbows against the hard wood. 

“Time changes a man.” The sentence ended with a tired look sent his way, Jaskier reading more into it than he would like to admit. 

“Broody, yes. Cold and stoic, sure. But this is getting ridiculous my man! Where is the man who told me off? The man who dragged me by the back of my neck like a stray kitten?” said Jaskier, his speech accompanied with gestures and grimaces. He lowered his voice, leaning his body over the table to lock their eyes before he continued. “Where is the old Geralt?”

A deep sigh ended the conversation. The two left the table after tossing a few coins to the innkeeper, trudging up a flight of stairs to enter they room for the night. Jaskier neatly folded his clothes by the end of the bed before getting in his cot, watching as his friend did the same. Sleep slowly sent him away into the lands of dream, only releasing him late into the night again. 

Trying to not rustle the sheets too badly, Jaskier turned over. He was now facing Geralt on the other bed, noticing his eyes still wide open as he stared at a smudge in the roof above. 

“You should try sleeping. I have heard it is a good remedy for bad mood.” Jaskier whispered, his hushed voice splitting through the dark room. When he got no answer, he cleared his throat.

Immediately, canary eyes fell upon his form. The scrutinising gaze made him cringe, feeling like nothing but a trapped animal in a cage. 

“You do that a lot.” Geralt said, the voice low even coming from him. With a quizzical look, Jaskier sat up and eyed the man, waiting for some sort of follow-up. Fearing he overestimated the Witcher’s willingness to explain his statement, the bard’s eyes darted elsewhere. 

“How is your throat?”

The question took Jaskier by surprise, Geralt rarely seeming to care much for his friend’s wellbeing. 

“It’s alright, might even be lubed up from that sexy witch!” He snorted, his fingers caressing the skin over his windpipe. It had been back to normal in less than an hour after his escape from the building, only getting better as time went on. 

He heard the rustling of sheets and turned to his friend, Geralt now sitting up much like himself. Even in the dark, Jaskier could see something was off, words left unsaid from the lips of the Witcher. For once, he didn’t push it.

Instead, silence fell again between the two, Jaskier even suspecting Geralt had fallen asleep with his eyes open by the looks of it. Moments before he would have convinced himself to turn around and fall back asleep, a hushed, deep voice once again filled the empty void of their room. 

“It was my wishes.” Geralt’s face contorted into a grimace when Jaskier jumped at the sudden break of the silence, his brows furrowed and lips pressed together into a thin line. It took the bard a few seconds to understand what he said, arching a brow as he huffed. 

“Then why would the Djiin rage on me? You have some new magical protection I haven’t heard of?” To be fair, Jaskier had suspected as much, considering none of his lavish wishes had come true yet. Except maybe his last, considering he had yet to enter the wreck that witch had stayed in. 

“No, nothing new.” Geralt sighed again, frustration showing all over his face and body language. His hands gripped into thin air, eyes staring at them as if he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t grasping anything. After a minute, he continued. “It was my first wish.”

Jaskier had forgotten much of their conversation from the point of seeing the man again after so long, all up until he finally awoke in the room with the witch painting her body. He searched his memories for an answer and the moment he remembered, the two of them said it in unison.

“ _’Give me some damn peace’_ “

Their eyes met and once again the room was quiet, not even the voices from down in the bar reaching them. Somehow, the distance between them seemed to grow, yet an intimate moment was shared as the two locked eyes. 

_Oh. This made a lot of sense._ The studying eyes as he coughed. His sudden generosity. The overbearing brooding and silence. How had he not pieced it all together?

Jaskier quickly rose to speak, his voice rambling without making much words string together coherently. Ignoring the other, the bard kept babbling as his legs flung off the bed and he stalked across the cold, wooden floor, desperately trying to shorten the distance building up. 

“Stop. Jaskier, quiet.” Gerlat was sitting by the end of the bed now and suddenly the two were _too close._ Had either of them reached out, they would be touching. Paralysed, Jaskier just stared at the other, his legs refusing to listen. Somehow he got his mouth to obey.

“It’s... it’s not your fault, Geralt.” His lungs were empty, just like the day by the lake. He couldn’t breathe properly, the turmoil filling their shared room simply pushing it all away before he could catch it. A warm presence on his wrist dragged him back into reality, sent the turmoil out the window to replace it with warmth. Looking down, Jaskier saw a strong hand holding his lithe wrist, following the muscled arm up to find worried eyes set on him. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” It was lower than a whisper. Had Jaskier not seen Geralt’s lips moving, he would have believed it to be nothing but a hallucination. Barely able to comprehend what he heard, he was not ready for what came next. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”


End file.
